


only time and life and a little distance until I could be with you

by janie_tangerine



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (for obvious reasons but we move on soon), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s08e05 The Bells, F/M, Fix-It, Jaime Lannister Has Issues, Minor Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Time Travel Fix-It, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Tyrion Lannister is a Good Sibling, do we care? absolutely not, eventually at least - Freeform, or better: UTTER RETCON OF THE BELLS, quarantine fic of doom, umpteenth version? most likely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:53:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23282083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: in which Jaime doesn't die under a few idiotic bricks and makes the most of his second chance.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister & Tyrion Lannister, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 72
Kudos: 416
Collections: COWT - Clash Of the Writing Titans/Chronicles Of Words and Trials





	only time and life and a little distance until I could be with you

**Author's Note:**

> HEEEY SO have some quarantine fic!!! tldr: in the writing challenge I'm doing on another website one of last week's tasks was writing fic putting two different tropes together, this was for arranged marriage + time travel fix-it. I also swore to myself I was never going to write time travel again and I fully intend to uphold that vow after this but it fit REALLY WELL so here we go xD it absolutely ignores each single plot hole jaime's stint could cause but please just go with it /o\ also this has some asoiaf canon thrown in but it's show based and implies that jb have a lesser age difference than they have in asoiaf canon/probably showcanon but otherwise it wasn't gonna work. xD
> 
> other than that: I own nothing (I wish, I WISH), the title is from brian fallon and I'll now saunter back downwards as usual. xD

One moment, he’s closing his eyes, the ceiling crushing over his head, thinking _I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I didn’t deserve her I’m sorry_ all over, not even thinking about what’s coming out of his mouth or what he’s telling his sister - the part of him that _didn’t_ want to be here is screaming _you were an idiot why did you leave you could have stayed you should have stayed_ , but he’s made his decision and Brienne deserved better and he wishes he had had the selfishness to stay, but he hadn’t and so this is what he gets, and he doesn’t expect to see anything other than darkness after the excruciating pain he’s feeling ends -

And then he opens his eyes and no, he’s not there anymore.

Jaime lurches up, sitting on - on his old bed in his old Kingsguard room in the Red Keep.

Then he promptly grabs his chamber pot and throws up.

He throws up for a long time, and only when he’s done he realizes that he had grabbed it -

_With his right hand_.

He throws up all over again, and _again_.

When he’s finally, _finally_ done (or better, when he doesn’t feel like he has anything left in his stomach to throw up anymore), he gets to his feet - he’s wearing one of the usual tunics he used to put on to sleep, and when he finds a mirror he sees that -

Oh.

_Oh_.

He doesn’t know how in the everlasting seven hells he’s looking like he used to _when he was ten and seven_ , but he can recognize himself well enough - this was just after he killed Aerys. He knows because the hair is the same length, the dark bags under his eyes are too intimately familiar and the way his hands are shaking -

Well.

He doesn’t know if they are because of what just happened or because they always used to shake pretty damned badly every morning, but he supposes it doesn’t matter now.

He falls back sitting on the bed, breathing in heavily - fuck. _Fuck_. He needs to assess the situation, because he’s most certainly not _dead_ , so unless all the bullshit septons sprouted about a life after death and so on are real, or unless this is some kind of very wild dream he’s having in his last moments of life, he’s apparently _back in time_ and in his own damned body _except fucking years ago_ , exactly at the point in time where he fucked up his life for good, and -

He puts his head in between his hands.

He needs to _think_ and he needs to think fast and straight.

_Good luck with that,_ says a voice that sounds like Cersei from somewhere inside his own head, _you never were that good at it now, were you_ -

“Shut the fuck up,” he says under his breath, and he’s somewhat surprised to realize it’s… liberating.

Or maybe he shouldn’t be surprised.

Riding away from her _had_ felt liberating, after all, hadn’t it?

He breathes in again.

He’s in King’s Landing, and he has just killed Aerys and all the realm already thinks him an oathbreaker. The only question is whether he has killed the pyromancers yet or _not_ , but he supposes he will find out quickly enough the moment he sets foot out of the room. King Robert has most likely pardoned him already, or is about to.

And in a few months’ time he will fuck his sister on the morning of her wedding d-

He grabs the chamber pot all over again.

Apparently, he wasn’t done throwing up.

\--

Later, he tries to focus once more, but he just can’t seem to fucking do it, so he puts on his armor and slips out of the room, finding that the hallway is empty. Of course, it’s the dead of the night and at this point he still hadn’t been confirmed in his position either way, so most likely no one would have looked for him to take his shift. He pulls on a dark cloak and slips out of the Red Keep.

He doesn’t fail to notice that he feels relieved as he does.

\--

It doesn’t take him a long time to figure out that he _has_ killed the pyromancers already - it takes heading for the place where he had buried in secret the last one and uncovering the grave to confirm it. The corpse is there. Fresh enough - can’t have been more than three days since.

He slips inside one of the few still standing taverns after the sack, orders an ale, sits in the corner farthest from the entrance and thinks all over again about what the fuck he’s supposed to do now.

On one side, he could go back to the castle.

He could - well. Go back, maybe try to be better than before, maybe try to not make the same mistakes, and if he could, maybe Cersei would be bett-

_Stop that nonsense_ , a voice that sound suspiciously like Tyrion says, _you know she wouldn’t be and you know she’s bad for you and you knew every second you traveled far from Winterfell, and you’ve known all along but you had been hers too long and you couldn’t find it in yourself to leave her to die, but you’re not now. Don’t be an idiot. You know you aren’t_.

He drinks more of his ale. That’s - not untrue. He can admit it to himself now. It is.

Except -

_I owe her. I should - she’s my second half, we are the same soul in two bodies, we are -_

_No she’s not and you’re not_ , that voice says again. _And you know that. You were happy in Winterfell, weren’t you_?

Yes, and he fucked that up. He fucked that up beyond decency, and he has no right -

_But you haven’t fucked it up now_ , his inner Tyrion says, as if he’s urging him to consider it.

And -

Well.

Yes. He hasn’t. He hasn’t.

Yet.

He remembers what Brienne told him as they laid under the covers of her bed, during that month they spent together. That in her sixteenth year, she had unarmed her third suitor because he wanted her to lay down her sword and just give him children as if he was paying her a favor by using her as a breeding mare, and - all right. She said it had been two years after the Rebellion. It’s not… too long for now. Maybe - maybe he could go to Tarth, maybe he could propose his own hand to her father -

\- but there is no way he will manage such a thing if he stays here, and the Kingsguard serves for life, and he doesn’t want to resign from it just to fight with his father about what he wants his life to be, because after all if there was _one_ sliver of good about the Kingsguard it was that he wasn’t - that his father couldn’t take decisions _for him_ , or maybe it wasn’t true because hadn’t he forced Jaime to tell his brother that lie -

No.

No, no, no, there is no way he can make anything better if he stays like this or even if he only leaves the Kingsguard. Being Jaime Lannister never paid him any favors in this sense, did it -

_And who says you have to?_ , the helpful voice whispers again, and -

Suddenly, he sees it.

It’s true. Jaime Lannister, Kingsguard or not, is already a cursed name at this point. And he can’t exactly ask her to marry the thrice-damned kingslayer even if now he knows she would understand his motivations if he explained her, and he doesn’t want to force her into having to deal with his father _or_ Cersei -

But.

_But_.

Suddenly, he thinks he knows what he can do. He has two years before she disarms her last suitor, after all, and he’s too late to stop Ronnet Connington from breaking her heart anyway, and as much as he wishes he didn’t feel utterly unworthy of pursuing her, she remembers how she asked him to stay, how she _wanted_ him to, how she -

How she _loved_ him, as much as he loved her even if he couldn’t stop himself from leaving -

Well.

He had been completely unworthy of her, in his past life.

But maybe he can be now.

But he needs help to do it and he needs to be quick about it, and he wishes he didn’t have to drag his brother into it, but there is literally no one else he knows who _would_ help him, and so -

So he goes back to the castle, packs a bag with enough coin and clothing to last him until Casterly Rock and rides away into the night.

\--

“You - you need my help doing _what_ ,” Tyrion whispers, staring up at him as if he hasn’t quite grasped what he has just asked, but - fair enough. It was a lot to take in, after all.

Jaime’s hands grasp tighter on his shoulders.

“I need you to help me fake my death,” he says.

“But _why_ would you?” Tyrion replies, and gods, he wishes he didn’t have to ask his _ten year old brother_ to do this, but - but he _has_ to.

“Because I can’t stay in King’s Landing anymore,” he says, “and I don’t want to be in that guard and I don’t - I don’t want to be where Cersei is, not anymore -”

“Well, at least you _did_ understand she’s the worst,” Tyrion half-pouts.

“Yeah, well. I did. But - if I give the Kingsguard up, Father is going to - well. You _know_ what he’s going to do.”

Tyrion’s mismatched eyes suddenly turn somber, more somber than eyes belonging to a ten year old should. “I know,” he sighs. “I can imagine even too well.”

“I can’t do that,” he whispers, hoping his voice doesn’t break. “I want a life and I can’t have it with either of them near me. You - you understand, I hope.”

“I do,” Tyrion nods, and then sends him a determined look. “All right. I will help you, for what I can. What do you need?”

Jaime hugs him once again, trying to not break into tears of relief.

He knows what he needs. He thought it through, on the way here.

\--

A week later, Tyrion goes in tears to a maid saying that his brother showed up the night previous, told him that he couldn’t live with himself after slaying his king and threw himself off a cliff and killed himself.

There is, in face, a corpse wearing a white armor impaled on the rocks underneath the cliff in question. It’s impossible to distinguish its face - it’s completely bashed in, and the rocks are covered in blood and gore, but when Barristan Selmy rides to Casterly Rock, he confirms that yes, it’s the same armor, and yes, it does indeed seem like Ser Jaime’s corpse.

A funeral is held in Casterly Rock a week later, still.

Tywin Lannister looks livid. Tyrion hears him whisper that no son of his should have disappointed him such. Cersei Lannister looks even more livid, and Tyrion is nowhere near surprised when he hears her say that _he had no right to leave this world until she was in it_.

He makes a good show of crying all of the time.

He doesn’t think he blames Jaime for having done what he just did.

He spends a week crying at every given moment to make sure the entire household thinks his heart utterly broken, and then resolves to wait out.

Jaime said he’d need a few moons to write him.

He can wait that long.

\--

A few months later, Tyrion is taking a walk in the castle’s garden, blissfully free of both his father and sister who are of course in King’s Landing readying for her wedding - and he’s not supposed to leave to join them until the last possible moment - when the maester tells him there is a raven from him.

“My lord,” he asks, “who would write you from Weeping Town?”

“Oh,” Tyrion lies, smiling, “a book merchant. I was inquiring to find a certain volume,” he says, and the maester doesn’t question it - it wouldn’t be the first time Tyrion writes to book merchants, after all.

He opens the raven the moment he’s alone.

Then he smiles very, very wide as he reads it. He doesn’t know why Jaime took care to add that if he ever runs into a girl named Tysha he should trust her, but that’s not the point.

The point is that now he knows that visiting Weeping Town will be the first thing he does the moment he comes of age.

Hopefully there really is some book merchant over there, after all.

\--

Selwyn Tarth is at the end of his rope and about to accept Ser Wagstaff’s offer for Brienne’s hand even if he doesn’t like the man and he’s absolutely sure his daughter will hate him when he gets a raven from Weeping Town.

The first time he reads it, he thinks _it has to be a jape_.

Then he re-reads it.

And -

_Lord Tarth,_

_I know that this missive most likely will perplex you, and I understand why; after all, you most likely never heard of me before, and no one would like complete unknowns to ask for their only daughter’s hand._

_I am but a humble former bastard born hedge knight who was lucky enough to join more than one lucrative tourney and find a few wealthy patrons, which means that I could buy a nice keep for myself in the Stormlands and I could keep on following my call while living comfortably in the same place rather than exhaust myself on the road. I have heard the rumors about your lady daughter being skilled with her sword, and I find myself extremely curious about it, for I never heard of a noble lady pursuing such a skill. I also have found myself growing lonely lately even if I’m still young, and I will admit that I would quite like to share my life with a woman that would understand my call and mayhaps share it. I have also understood that not many men have come forward to ask for her hand, which is the only reason I dare ask you for a chance to prove myself worthy of it; if you agree to it, I would be honored to meet her and see if she would have me._

_Respectfully yours,_

_Ser Jaime Hill_

Selwyn re-reads the letter _thrice_.

On one side, he has never heard of this man, but then again, if he’s a former hedge knight from the Westerlands who is also bastard born, it’s only understandable. And… well. _Former bastard born hedge knight_ certainly wasn’t what he had envisioned for Brienne, _but_.

That bastard Ronnet Connington _would_ have married way above his station, if he hadn’t scorned Brienne so. Ser Wagstaff _also_ would marry way above his station if he had his way, and the only reason he accepted them was that… well. No one who was _above Brienne’s station_ would have her, and he _has_ tried to find her a worthy husband for years, and failed more times than he can count.

This former hedge knight sounds sincere, and _he_ asked first, not because Selwyn proposed the match. And if anything he doesn’t sound like he would make Brienne give up her sword, which - is good. She would hate it.

That said… well. It costs him nothing to invite the man to Tarth and talk to him and see if he means what he said.

Selwyn finds a fresh sheet of paper, takes his quill in his hands and starts penning an answer.

\--

Two weeks later, a small ship lands in Tarth’s port. Selwyn waits there, alone, until a man finally descends from it and walks towards him on the plank.

For a moment, Selwyn thinks, _it must be someone else_ , because the man in question is -

Well.

He looks like a knight straight out of those songs Brienne loves so much - he’s not wearing armor, but he has a good sword on his hip, Selwyn can see that it’s of exquisite craft, and all of his clothing is gray regular cotton except for a slightly fancier red chemise that _really_ brings out his tanned skin, bright emerald eyes and long golden hair.

Except that he also looks like all the pretty faces who always laughed at his daughter, which is what makes Selwyn doubt that it’s in fact -

“Lord Selwyn Tarth?” The man asks, sounding sure of himself but respectful at the same time.

“The very same,” he replies. “Ser… Jaime, I suppose?”

The man grins, showing pearly white teeth. “Indeed,” he says. “Your island seems enchanting.”

“Well,” Selwyn says, “I will be glad to show you around. But I think we should head for Evenfall Hall first, shouldn’t we?”

“Do lead the way,” Ser Jaime replies.

Selwyn really, _really_ hopes that this man isn’t japing.

Because if he isn’t -

_If he isn’t_ , maybe Brienne won’t hate him for having found her a suitor when after Ronnet Connington she made him swear he wouldn’t anymore.

\--

“And,” Selwyn says, “you _are_ aware that my daughter is not… what people would call a _beautiful_ lady?”

He hates himself for asking the question, but - well. He should have asked it to bloody Ronnet Connington, so better safe than sorry.

“My lord,” Ser Jaime replies, “I used to… be involved with an extremely beautiful woman. One whose looks were envied by most people in her orbit. And she was… the vilest person I have ever known. She ruin- she _almost_ ruined my life,” he says, shaking his head, “and that made me understand that it’s not what matters. If I have to share my life with a woman, I want her to be beautiful where it counts, not outside.”

“I think,” Selwyn says, “that I like what I’m hearing, but I also think we should go and see her spar. Come over here, on the balcony. She should be in the yard.”

She _is_ \- Brienne is fighting Ser Goodwin, because of course he’s her only option here, and she’s wearing her usual old breeches and shirt, and they’re close enough to see pretty much everything that’s going on.

Selwyn turns his eyes to Ser Jaime, ready to see if his first glance at Brienne is of disgust or distaste -

But the moment the man’s eyes land on her, they go wider at once, and then he bites down on his lower lip and a moment later they’re getting _wet_ and he shakes his head as he breathes in sharply, and then -

“Apologies,” he croaks, “I heard she was good. But I had no idea she was _that_ good.”

He sounds like he’s about to cry.

Selwyn thinks he knows his answer now.

\--

“If she wants you,” he tells Ser Jaime later, after they went back into his solar, “I agree to the match. Of course, _you_ are to stay here and _you_ are to take her cloak.”

“I expected nothing less,” Ser Jaime replies, and he seems not to mind at all.

“That’s… remarkable of you. Most men wouldn’t accept taking a woman’s cloak, after all.”

“Lord Selwyn,” Ser Jaime grins, meaning it, “I like to think there are not many men like me around, and I pride myself in it.”

“I see,” Selwyn says, and fine, maybe he _is_ a bit too self-assured in that sense, but he thinks he likes it. “Then tomorrow you shall meet her.”

“Thank you,” Ser Jaime replies, sounding like he _will_ cry.

Selwyn nods at him and shows him to his rooms.

He has to talk to Brienne, after all.

\--

When Father told her that he had found her a worthy match and that this time it was no Ronnet Connington, Brienne couldn’t believe her ears.

“What - what do you mean by _worthy_?” She had asked.

“Well, first of all, _he_ asked for your hand first. He’s a former hedge knight, so someone you _should_ like talking to, and he said he had no issues taking your cloak if needed, and he’s not noble, but - he arrived here yesterday because I wanted to test him first, and I think he’s - I think he is. Worthy, I mean. And - no, I think you should find out on your own. He can meet you tomorrow, and if you like him, I consented.”

“If - _if I like him_?”

“I don’t want you to marry someone you would hate,” he had replies, and she had asked if she had to wear a gown, and Father had shaken his head and said that she could go in her usual garb, though maybe she could choose clothing that wasn’t frayed or ruined by sparring.

So she had worn a pair of new, clean breeches and the only nice blue chemise she has, the one that makes her eyes pop up, or so said the tailor, even if she doesn’t think it will mean much. She’s really not sure that this might work, and this man sounds too good to be real, and so she waits in the middle of the yard - she asked Father to not make this a public thing and he agreed - and wonders if it’s another jape, it most likely will be -

“Lady Brienne?” A warm voice says from behind her.

She turns and -

_Oh_.

“Ser - Ser Jaime?” She blurts, staring down into the eyes of a man just slightly shorter than her, who looks - who looks like some kind of prince from the songs with bright emerald eyes and golden hair, tanned skin, a squared chiseled face with just a hint of stubble and a smile that makes her knees go weak.

This can’t be true.

_This man_ can’t have asked for her hand -

“Indeed,” he says, reaching out and kissing her hand.

As much as she wishes it wasn’t the case, her stomach fills with butterflies at once, and she tries to not let her hands shake.

“Enchanted,” he keeps on, and, “you know, you _do_ have quite astonishing eyes, my lady. Rumors only told of how good you were with a sword, not of _them_.”

“I - thank you,” she whispers, feeling her cheeks flush. “Uhm, I mean, yours too, or better - gods, I’m sorry, this is -”

“You can say it, you know,” he smiles again, and he’s not _mocking_ her, and she can’t believe it, but -

Gods. She swore to herself that she _wouldn’t_ fall for this kind of thing again, but -

“Well, if my eyes are astonishing… the whole of you is. I mean. Quite. Gods, this is so _improper_ , I -”

“I don’t care for _proper_ that much,” he smiles back. “And for that matter… I saw you spar from your father’s solar yesterday.”

Oh.

He puts a hand on his sword, and then -

“May I have a dance with you, my lady? _That_ kind of.”

She finds herself smiling back, not so tentatively, as she reaches for the sword that she left lying on the ground.

“Yes,” she says, breathless, “yes, I should like that very much.”

Minutes later, as she finds out that he’s not just good, he’s _exceptional_ , she thinks that as much as she hadn’t hoped to ever find a man she would want to marry herself…

She thinks will enjoy being married to him.

She will enjoy that very, _very_ much.

End.


End file.
